


Nothing for Something

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I'm Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Ice Nation finds Murphy and Emori as they marauder their way through the woods; John is gravely injured and Emori realizes the only way to save his life...is to offer Azgeda her own.





	Nothing for Something

**Author's Note:**

> so the prompt was angst and, um, this is angst. not a happy ending.

John’s shaking.

Lying by the fire in the cave, blood seeping from the crater an Azgeda knife carved into his chest. The fire amplifies his trembling over the crooked walls of the cave, its crackling doing little to disguise his labored breathing. His teeth are chattering and his eyes are all but glazed over, but Emori knows if she asks him, he’ll say he’s fine.

She has to get him back to his people.

She’s run a million different scenarios, every con she can think of. Everything that she and Otan ever pulled off, and everything she and John were going to; none of them are worth a thing if she can’t get him back to Clarke or her mother.

They’re lucky the prince didn’t kill them on the spot.

When the spies recognized her and John as the robbers, it didn’t matter that they were in Trikru territory; they’d been taken to Roan right away. He’s outside the cave now, with a couple of men with blades that matched the hole in John’s chest.

She’d seen it when they were first brought before him, the prince: his empathy. He knows what it’s like to be cast out. But laws are laws, and traditions are traditions, and if he wants to get his mother’s favor back, there’s only so much he can do.

Which means there’s only so much she can do.  

“Be right back,” Emori says quietly, not that John can hear her. But she presses the edge of her sleeve to his forehead, wiping at the sweat glistening there, before pushing to her feet.

At the cave’s entrance, two swords cross in front of her. Emori doesn’t jump, doesn’t startle, just tilts her head and waits for the men to lower their blades.

“Easy,” she says, voice low, “I want to talk to your Prince.”

“Talk.”

His voice comes from above; he’s sitting on a cropping of rocks above the mouth of the cave. Emori cocks her head and the soldiers lower their swords. She climbs up to the rocks.

She shouldn’t sit, not with royalty.

Of course, she shouldn’t be alive, much less breathing his air, according to the traditions of her people and the religion of his.

So she sits.

“I want to make a deal.”

Roan makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. “The ones with the better hand make the deals.”

“I think you meant _upper_ hand,” she says, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

“I don’t think I did,” he says, deliberately.

She can’t say he’s wrong, in either sense.

“But here I am anyways.”

He hums again. “Yes. The Frikdreina who kills men in the forests and steals their wares.”

Emori lifts her chin. “The Frikdreina who your laws have decided cannot have wares of her own. Circumvention is the only way to survive.”

“Some would say survival isn’t your birthright.”

“Some would,” she says, “and that’s why I’m here.”

“You can’t expect me to bend those laws.”

Emori shakes her head.

“I do not.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, slow understanding crosses Roan’s face. She’s made him curious, and she’s not begging. She’s making him ask for her deal.

She knows a thing or three about better hands.

A rusty laugh escapes him. “Let’s hear it then.”

The words taste bitter on her tongue, roll with a sharpness off her lips. “Your people want atonement, as they always do. But they don’t want war with the Sky People.”

It’s not true, not at all; the queen is frothing at the mouth for war. But the prince is just as exiled as she, and Emori knows her sources are better than his. Closer to the ground.

“If you’re implying—” Roan begins, pride offended, and Emori holds up a hand.

“I’m not implying,” just lying, she thinks, “anything. They have weapons your people don’t understand. They’re angry, ready for a fight. You heard of the mountain; you know what they’re capable of.”

Roan isn’t appeased, but he lets her continue.

Good, she doesn’t need her web interrupted.

“Thieving or not, with me or not, if you kill him,” she doesn’t have to say his name; they both know she means the man bleeding out by the fire. Her heart stutters, but her voice is steady. “When Skaikru finds his head on a stake, there will be war. And the clans will not side with you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Sits with it, thinks with it. Considers what bringing home a prize like that would mean. How heavy a weight it would be; if it’s a trophy or a burden.

His brow furrows. “What are you asking me to do?”

Emori wets her lips. “Say he died,” she says, her head jerking down to the cave. “Tell your men, your queen, anyone, that the sky-weakened thief died by an Azgeda blade in the initial conquest. But you bring me for their justice.”

It settles over him.

“You want me to lie.”

“I want you to lie,” she affirms curtly. “You let him go, let the sky people take their own. And you bring a Wastelander for their justice.”

Roan leans back, thinking. “You’d trade your life for his?”

Emori shakes her head. “No.”

Ask for it, she wills him. Ask for the deal you thought you didn't want. 

She waits for him to turn back to her, to look her in the eye. She needs him to hear her, listen. She’s harder to ignore when she can see his soul.

He turns.

His eyebrows raise, and Emori’s mouth quirks. It’s almost too easy.

“Not a life for a life,” she says slowly, knowing he’s hanging on her words. “A death for a life.”

“They’ll want a show,” he says at length.

Emori knows it.

Azgeda is many things, merciful is not one. That’s why she’s gambling with a prince, for John’s life.

“My life’s been a show,” she looks out into the dark forest. The mist of early morning is creeping through the trees, but they’ve several hours yet until dawn. “I’ve been a spectacle since the moment I was born. It’s fitting I die as one.”

The humming sound again.

It’s not like she wants to die.

But she’s going to anyways, it seems, and she might as well go on her terms. She’s making a deal with no leverage, demanding her way from someone who doesn’t know well enough to second guess her. It’s how she’s lived, so it’s a good end. And if this is her end, then she might as well save John.

“I don’t want war,” the Prince says. “I don’t want your blood, but it’s going to spill anyways, for your crimes.”

It’s almost sweet, how he thinks he’s choosing mercy. Like she didn’t just lead him to water, lift a ladle, command him to drink. Now she supposes he expects her to applaud when she does.

“When they kill me,” she says, surprised at the calm in her voice, “their bloodlust is satiated. They’ll forget Skaikru for a moment. You’ll have your mother’s ear. And Skaikru will remember your mercy.”

He doesn’t respond, then nods shortly.

It’s a good plan, she can see him thinking, I’ve made a wise choice.

He hasn’t made anything close to a choice, but Emori isn’t bothered.

The prince nods again.

“Two of my men will take him to the border of Skaikru patrols. You’ll journey North with the rest of us.”

“To Azgeda,” she prompts, reminding him of his destination.

“To Azgeda,” he says, a wistfulness in his voice when he realizes he’s going home.

In another life, Emori thinks, she could’ve taken him for every penny he was worth. If only every mark were this easy.

But she doesn’t have another life.

She barely has any left in this one.

“Take two minutes,” he says brusquely, the thought of home making him benevolent, “say your goodbyes.”

Goodbyes.

She hasn’t thought that far.

But she nods serenely like she’ll see John again in a fortnight and stands, brushing the forest off her pants. Clambers down the rocks back to the cave.

It’s glowing orange from the light of the fire. The shadows are still playing on the walls and John’s breathing is still echoing.

She wonders if she’ll remember the sound forever.

Forever might only be a couple of days.

She shakes the thought from herself, fixing a soft smile to her face. If John were lucid, he’d see through it in an instant. As it is, she just needs to fool him for two minutes.

She hopes he remembers her smile.

Emori kneels next to the fire, the warmth of it brushing over her. John stirs, turning to her before his eyes even open.

The wound on his chest doesn’t look good.

It doesn’t matter, she chastises herself. John’s Clarke brought a Reaper back from the dead. Saved a man strung up by Trikru, a spear lodged in his chest for days. Forced a thinning virus back from her people, bared her teeth at it and saved them. She can save John.

She has to.

“Good news,” Emori says softly.

John’s eyes open, fluttering, pupils blown as he tries to find her in the dim light of the cave.

“Em,” he rasps, voice grating from dehydration. “Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”

Her heart clenches because of course that’s what he’s asking, as he can’t see straight from a hole in his chest. She lifts a hand, brushing back the hair from his forehead.

“What kind of good news would that be,” she teases.

Some of the panic fades from his face, and she sees pain seeping in to replace it.

“What I meant,” she says quickly, and her fingers are still in his hair, then along his jaw, “is that I worked out a treaty.”

“Course you did,” he mumbles.

“Of course I did,” she agrees. “So we’re going to get you back to Clarke, and she’s going to fix you up.”

“She’s gonna be thrilled about that.”

Emori feels her smile turn genuine. “She’ll like a challenge, right?”

“She’ll like to show off,” he mumbles, but he’s too strung out to hide the strain of relief in his voice. For all the complaining John does about the kids he came down with, he talks about them too much to be as unaffected as he pretends to be.

She’s happy he’ll have them.

Maybe they’ll find the softness she’s found in him. Maybe someone will sit with him, listen to the stories he thinks are stupid, hear the pain laced in every memory of his parents. Maybe someone else will tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that they’d be proud of him. Maybe someone else will hold his hands, his heart, keep him safe.

After she won’t be able to.

John’s brow furrows.

“So what’d you trade?” he asks, his head leaning heavily into her hand.

“Hmm?”

She’s stalling, and she hopes he doesn’t pick up on it.

“You’re good, Em,” he says, breaking off to grit his teeth when a wave of pain courses over him, “but not good enough to trade our lives for nothing. Nothing never gets something, right?”

He’s wrong.

Because everything worth her life, he is. And he’ll live.

Nothing for something.

“John if it were easy to be this good,” she brushes over his ear, back to the top of his head, “Everyone would do it.”

Will someone else run their fingers through his hair? Will he turn his head into someone else’s palm? Learn to love himself as he loves someone else?

She loves him, Emori realizes.

Should’ve probably realized it sooner, realized it when she offered her death for him. She needs his heart to beat long after hers, needs to know his skin will warm in the sunlight, his air filled with sea air.  

Maybe she’ll be there.

Emori never thinks much beyond death, but if people come back, not just commanders, then maybe she’ll visit him on a ray of sun. On a burst of summer wind, on a rustle of leaves on giant oak trees. On the back of a beetle, on the dripping of a stream deep in a wood. She’ll watch over him.

As she does now, she always will.

A shadow falls over the cave and Emori’s heart rate doubles.

That can’t be time, she thinks wildly, can’t be two minutes, not already, it’s too soon.

But she stretches her smile, turns her nails slightly as she cards her fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp.

“Okay,” she says, voice light, “the moving part is going to suck.”

“Lying here hasn’t been a picnic.”

“Well, being carried isn’t about to be one either,” she says, and wonders if he hears the strain in her voice. It’s everything she can do to keep the panic veiled. “But what I need from you is to be still, okay?”

“Be still,” John echoes obediently.

“Mmhmm,” she says, heart bursting. “No tossing around, no adjusting, no thinking, okay?”

No looking for me, she bites it back.

“All you have to do,” she says, teeth clenching, “is focus on getting back to your Clarke, yeah?”

“No,” he mumbles, and it’s somewhat petulant.

“W-what do you mean no?” she asks, and he has to hear the tightness, has to see through it. But he doesn’t.

“I mean,” he says, and then his fingers are on hers, pulling her hands from his hair, holding them tightly in his. “You’re mine. Don’t go calling anybody else that.”

She can’t do this.

Can’t think over the blood pounding through her skull, through the strain of forcing every fragment of her heart out of her face. She swallows, wets her lips, keeps her smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says softly.

“Alright.”

It’s Roan’s voice, from the door.

Emori can’t let go. His fingers in hers are all she wants to remember, the only thing she’ll hold on to. She found him in the dessert, or he found her, and they survived.

They survived together, everything, and now…

Now they won’t.

He will.

This is how it has to be, how it needs to be.

She squeezes his fingers lightly, stands. His eyes flutter as she leaves and he focuses on her face, blinking slowly.

He frowns. “Em?”

He sees it.

He sees it, he has to, and he can’t; she shakes her head, pulling every ounce of strength that she’s spent a lifetime accruing, focuses it. Smiles.

“It’s okay,” she says gently. “We’re getting you home.”

He’s still frowning, and she can’t bear it.

Remember my smile, her heart screams at him. Remember how we laugh as we run, remember the boat, remember the crunch of the leaves and fresh moss. Remember the desert, my desert, our desert, remember a canteen of stale water.

“It’s okay,” she says again, and it’s to herself, not him.

The Azgeda men step forward. They lift the blanket John’s on and he moans unintentionally.

“Careful!” Emori cries, loud, and her pain is on her voice. Everyone turns to her, shocked by the outburst.

She clears her throat, lowers her voice.

“I’m right behind you, okay, John? Take it easy.”

His frown deepens and she can see it, see that he knows there’s something he doesn’t know, but he can’t understand it.

She smiles wider and wonders if it’s at all convincing.

Oh maybe she should’ve told him.

But how selfish would that have been?

His last memory of her would be of tears, panic, arguing. He’d kill himself crawling out of the blanket.

This is how it has to be.

The men adjust their grip. Walk out of the cave, into the woods, and it’s quiet. The fire crackles, echoes.

Echoes.

It’s empty.

Everything’s empty.

She can’t breathe.

The walls of the cave are moving; it must be an earthquake because they’re moving in on her. And that must be the rumble of rocks falling that she hears in her ears, loud, roaring. The fire must be too bright, too warm, because she can’t feel anything other than searing heat and John is gone, he’s gone, gone from her life.

From her death.

Emori closes her eyes.

Forces a breath through pursed lips, in and out, measured. Then another.

Opens her eyes.

Lifts her head, her chin, sets her shoulders back. Walks on steady steps towards the mouth of the cave, not faltering, and the ice prince moves for her.

He’s following her.

They leave the cave, they walk North; the forest stirs around them.

Somewhere in this wood, a stream is flowing to a creek, to a fall, to a river. Somewhere, a vine is pushing through the soil, feeling the cold night air for the first time. Somewhere, a coyote howls for its mate, somewhere an owl swoops from the sky, a white ghost against dark boughs, to snatch its prey from the undergrowth.

Somewhere, a man is carried by his enemies, a dawn away from being united with his people. In this wood, his chest will close, will heal, the scar will fade. He’ll learn the truth. He’ll want to crumble, want to keel under the weight of it, but he won’t. Because he’s stronger. Because he’s carrying her too now.

Emori’s face is wet, now, damp with tears she doesn’t know she’s crying. They fall silently, unmarked, onto fallen trees, common moss, unturned stones.

Then they dry.

Her eyes dry.

Her shoulders are still set.

As the sun rises, as the forest begins to thin and the air grows sharper, colder, Emori’s step is steady.

At the end of the forest, she stops.

They bind her wrists, then, her hands in front of her. On display. A show, as she’d promised. There’s a thundering, and it’s horses, their hooves pounding against cold ground. Azgeda guards, to escort them.

As they break the clearing, Emori turns, sharp.

Her eyes drink in the trees, desperate, at the green, the tapestry before her. Soon to be behind her.

The hooves are louder.

She breathes in, deep, inhales the fallen leaves, the wet dirt, the rich scent that means life. And when she lets out the breath, releases the air of the forest and turns to breath the frosted air of the north, her breath comes out as a prayer. A song, a hope, a blessing for someone miles away: _survive_.


End file.
